"Lies near the little town of Rossau. The monastery was in needy circumstances, and under ecclesiastical protection till the Thirty Years' War. In 1637 the town and monastery were desolated by the Swedes; the last monks disappeared and the monastery was never again re-established. That is all I have been able to learn up to this time; for anything further I request your help."
"The next question will be whether the manor-house outlasted the war," answered the Doctor, "and what has become of it now. It will be more difficult to ascertain where Brother Tobias Bachhuber ended his days, and most difficult of all to discover through what hands his little book has reached us."
"I obtained the book from a second-hand dealer here; it was a new acquisition, and not yet entered in his catalogue. To-morrow I will obtain all further information that the book-seller may be able to give. It will, perhaps, be worth while to investigate further," he continued, more coolly, endeavoring to restrain his intense excitement by a little rational reflection. "More than two centuries have elapsed since that cipher was written by the friar; during that period destructive agencies were not less active than before. Just think of the war and devastation of the years when the cloister was destroyed. And so we are no better off than if the manuscript had been lost several centuries previously."
"And yet the probability that the manuscript is preserved to the present day increases with every century," interposed the Doctor; "for the number of men who would value such a discovery has increased so much since that war, that destruction from rude ignorance has become almost inconceivable."
"We must not trust too much to the knowledge of the present day," said the Professor; "but if it were so," he continued, his eyes flashing, "if the imperial history of the first century, as written by Tacitus, were restored by a propitious fate, it would be a gift so great that the thought of the possibility of it might well, like Roman wine, intoxicate an honest man."
"Invaluable," assented the Doctor, "for our knowledge of the language, and for a hundred particulars of Roman history."
"And for the early history of Germany!" exclaimed the Professor.
Both traversed the room with rapid steps, shook hands, and looked at each other joyfully.
"And if a fortunate accident should put us on the track of this manuscript," began Fritz, "if through you it should be restored to the light of day, you, my friend, you are best fitted to edit it. The thought that you would experience such a pleasure, and that a work of such renown would fall to your lot, makes me happier than I can say."
"If we can find the manuscript," answered the Professor, "we must edit it together."
"Together?" exclaimed Fritz, with surprise.
"Yes, together," said the Professor, with decision; "it would make your ability widely known."
Fritz drew back. "How can you think that I would be so presumptuous?"
"Do not contradict me," exclaimed the Professor, "you are perfectly qualified for it."
"That I am not," answered Fritz, firmly; "and I am too proud to undertake anything for which I should have to thank your kindness more than my own powers."
"That is undue modesty," again exclaimed the Professor.
"I shall never do it," answered Fritz. "I could not for one moment think of adorning myself before the public with borrowed plumage."
"I know better than you," said the Professor, indignantly, "what you are able to do, and what is to your advantage."
"At all events, I would never agree that you should have the lion's share of the labor and secretly be deprived of the reward. Not my modesty, but my self-respect forbids this. And this feeling you ought to respect," concluded Fritz, with great energy.
"Now," returned the Professor, restraining his excited feelings, "we are behaving like the man who bought a house and field with the money procured by the sale of a calf which was not yet born. Be calm, Fritz; neither I nor you shall edit the manuscript."
"And we shall never know how the Roman Emperor treated the ill fated Thusnelda and Thumelicus!" said Fritz, sympathizingly to his friend.
"But it is not the absence of such particulars," said the Professor, "that makes the loss of the manuscript so greatly felt, for the main facts may be obtained from other sources. The most important point will always be, that Tacitus was the first, and in many respects is the only, historian who has portrayed the most striking and gloomy phases of human nature. His works that are extant are two historical tragedies, scenes in the Julian and Flavian imperial houses-fearful pictures of the enormous change which, in the course of a century, took place in the greatest city of antiquity, in the character of its emperors and the souls of their subjects-the history of tyrannical rule, which exterminated a noble race, destroyed a high and rich civilization, and degraded, with few exceptions, even the rulers themselves. We have, even up to the present day, scarcely another work whose author looks so searchingly into the souls of a whole succession of princes, and which describes so acutely and accurately the ruin which was wrought in different natures by the fiendish and distempered minds of rulers."
"It always makes me angry," said the Doctor, "when I hear him reproached as having for the most part written only imperial and court history. Who can expect grapes from a cypress, and satisfactory enjoyment in the grand public life of a man who, during a great portion of his manhood, daily saw before his eyes the dagger and poison-cup of a mad despot?"
"Yes," agreed the Professor, "Tacitus belonged to the aristocracy-a body unfit to rule, and unwilling to obey. In the consciousness of their privileged position they were the indispensable servants, while still the enemies and the rivals, of their sovereigns. In them the virtues and the vices of a mighty epoch grew to monstrous manifestations. Who but one of their own circle should write the history of Roman imperialism? The blackest crimes were concealed behind the stone walls of palaces; rumor, the low murmur of the antechamber, the lurking look of concealed hatred, were often the only sources the historian could command."
"All that remains for us to do is discreetly to accept the judgment of the man who has handed down to us information concerning this strange condition of things. Moreover, whoever studies the fragments of Tacitus that have been preserved, impartially and intelligently, will honor and admire his profound insight into the inmost depths of Roman character. It is an experienced statesman, of a powerful and truthful mind, relating the secret history of his time so clearly that we understand the men and all their doings as if we ourselves had the opportunity of reading their hearts. He who can do this for later centuries is not only a great historian but a great man. And for such I always felt a deep, heartfelt reverence, and I consider it the duty of a true critic to clear such a character from the attacks of petty minds."
"Hardly one of his contemporaries," said the Doctor, "has felt the poverty of his epoch's civilization as deeply as himself."
"Yes," rejoined the Professor, "he was a genuine man, so far as was possible in his time; and that is, after all, the main point. For what we must demand, is not the amount of knowledge for which we have to thank a great man, but his own personality, which, through what he has produced for us, becomes a portion of ourselves. Thus the spirit of Aristotle is something different to us than the substance of his teaching. For us Sophocles signifies much more than seven tragedies. His manner of thinking and feeling, his perception of the beautiful and the good, ought to become part of our life. Only in this way does the study of the past healthily influence our actions and our aspirations. In this sense the sad and sorrowful soul of Tacitus is far more to me than his delineation of the Emperor's madness. And you see, Fritz, it is on this account that your Sanskrit and Hindu languages are not satisfactory to me-the men are wanting in them."
"It is, at least, difficult for us to recognize them," answered his friend. "But one who, like you, explains Homer's epics to students, should not undervalue the charm that lies in sounding the mysterious depths of human activity, when a youthful nation conceals from our view the work of the individual man, and when the people itself comes before us in poetry, traditions, and law, assuming the shape of a living individuality."
"He who only engages in such researches," answered the Professor, eagerly, "soon becomes fantastic and visionary. The study of such ancient times acts like opium, and he who lingers all his life in such studies will hardly escape vagaries."
Fritz rose. "That is our old quarrel. I know you do not wish to speak harshly to me, but I feel that you intend this for me."
"And am I wrong?" continued the Professor. "I undoubtedly have a respect for every intellectual work, but I desire for my friend that which will be most beneficial to him. Your investigations into Hindu and German mythology entice you from one problem to another; youthful energies should not linger in the endless domain of indistinct contemplations and unreal shadows. Come to a decision for other reasons also. It does not behoove you to be merely a private student; such a life is too easy for you; you need the outward pressure of definite duties. You have many of the qualities requisite for a professor. Do not remain in your parents' house; you must become a university lecturer."
A heightened color spread slowly over the face of his friend. "Enough," he exclaimed, vexed; "if I have thought too little of my future, you should not reproach me for it. It has perhaps been too great a pleasure to me to be your companion and the confidant of your successful labors. I also, from my intercourse with you, have enjoyed that pleasure which an intellectual man bestows upon all who participate in his creations. Good night."
The Professor approached him, and seizing both his hands, exclaimed, "Stay! Are you angry with me?"
"No," answered Fritz, "but I am going;" and he closed the door gently.
The Professor paced up and down excitedly, reproaching himself for his vehemence. At length he violently threw the books which had served as a signal back on the shelf, and again seated himself at his desk.
Gabriel lighted the Doctor down the stairs, opened the door, and shook his head when he heard his "Good night" curtly answered. He extinguished the light and listened at his master's door. When he heard the Professor's steps, he determined to refresh himself by the mild evening air, and descended into the little garden. There he met Mr. Hummel, who was walking under the Professor's windows. Mr. Hummel was a broad-shouldered gentleman, with a large head and a determined face, portly and well-preserved, of the honest old Saxon type. He smoked a long pipe, with a huge mouth-piece, which was divided into a number of capacious compartments.
"A fine evening, Gabriel," began Mr. Hummel, "a good season; what a harvest we shall have!" He nudged the servant. "Has anything happened up there? The window is open," he concluded significantly, and disapprovingly shook his head.
"He has closed the window again," answered Gabriel, evasively. "The bats and the moths become troublesome, and when he argues with the Doctor they both grow so loud that people in the street stop and listen."
"Circumspection is always wise," said Mr. Hummel; "but what was the matter? The Doctor is the son of the man over yonder, and you know my opinion of them, Gabriel-I do not trust them. I do not wish to injure any one, but I have my views concerning them."
"What it was about," answered Gabriel, "I did not hear; but I can tell you this much, there was much talk about the ancient Romans. Look you, Mr. Hummel, if the old Romans were among us now, much would be different. They were dare-devils; they knew how to forage; they knew how to carry on war; they conquered everywhere."
"You speak like an incendiary," said Mr. Hummel, with displeasure.
"Yes, that is the way they did," answered Gabriel, complacently. "They were a selfish people, and knew how to look out for their own interests. But what is most wonderful is the number of books these Romans wrote for all that, large and small-many also in folio. When I dust the library there is no end to the Romans of all sizes, and some are books thicker than the Bible, only they are all difficult to read; but one who knows the language may learn much."
"The Romans are an extinct people," replied Mr. Hummel. "When they disappeared, the Germans came. The Romans could never exist with us. The only thing that can help us is the Hanseatic league. That is the thing to look to. Powerful at sea, Gabriel," he exclaimed, taking hold of his coat by a button, "the cities must form alliances, invest money, build ships, and hoist flags; our trade and credit are established, and men are not wanting."
"And would you venture on the mighty ocean in that vessel?" asked Gabriel, pointing to a little rowboat which lay in the rear of the garden tilted over on two planks. "Shall I go to sea with the Professor?"
"That is not the question," answered Mr. Hummel; "let the young people go first-they are useless. Many could do better than stay at home with their parents. Why should not the doctor up there serve his country in the capacity of a sailor?"
"What do you mean, Mr. Hummel?" cried Gabriel, startled; "the young gentleman is nearsighted."
"That's nothing," muttered Mr. Hummel, "for they have telescopes at sea, and for aught I care he may become a captain. I am not the man to wish evil to my neighbor."
"He is a man of learning," replied Gabriel, "and this class is also necessary. I can assure you, Mr. Hummel, I have meditated much upon the character of the learned. I know my Professor thoroughly, and something of the Doctor, and I must say there is something in it-there is much in it. Sometimes I am not so sure of it. When the tailor brings the Professor home a new coat he does not remark what everybody else sees, whether the coat fits him or wrinkles. If he takes it into his head to buy a load of wood which has very likely been stolen, from a peasant, he pays more in my absence than any one else would. And when he grows angry and excited about matters that you and I would discuss very calmly, I must say I have my doubts. But when I see how he acts at other times-how kind and merciful he is, even to the flies that buzz about his nose, taking them out of his coffee-cup with a spoon and setting them on the window-sill-how he wishes well to all the world and begrudges himself everything-how he sits reading and writing till late at night-when I see all this, I must say his life affects me powerfully. And I tell you I will not allow any one to underrate our men of learning. They are different from us; they do not understand what we do, nor do we understand what they do."
"Yet we also have our culture," replied Mr. Hummel. "Gabriel, you have spoken like an honorable man, but I will confide this to you-that a man may have great knowledge, and yet be a very hard-hearted individual, who loans his money on usurious interest and deprives his friends of the honor due them. Therefore I think the main point is to have order and boundaries, and to leave something to one's descendants. Regularity here," he pointed to his breast, "and a boundary there," pointing to his fence, "that one may be sure as to what belongs to one's self and what to another, and a secure property for one's children on which they may settle themselves. That is what I understand as the life of man."
The householder locked the gate of the fence and the door of the house. Gabriel also sought his bed, but the lamp in the Professor's study burned late into the night, and its rays intermingled on the windowsill with the pale moonshine. At length the Scholar's light was extinguished, and the room left empty; outside, small clouds coursed over the disk of the moon, and flickering lights reigned paramount in the room, over the writing-table, over the works of the old Romans, and over the little book of the defunct Brother Tobias.
CHAPTER II.
THE HOSTILE NEIGHBORS
We are led to believe that in future times there will be nothing but love and happiness; and men will go about with palm branches in their hands to chase away the last of those birds of night, hatred and malice. In such a chase we would probably find the last nest of these monsters hanging between the walls of two neighboring houses. For they have nestled between neighbor and neighbor ever since the rain trickled from the roof of one house into the court of the other; ever since the rays of the sun were kept away from one house by the wall of the other; ever since children thrust their hands through the hedge to steal berries; ever since the master of the house has been inclined to consider himself better than his fellow-men. There are in our days few houses in the country between which so much ill-will and hostile criticism exist as between the two houses near the great city park.
Many will remember the time when the houses of the town did not extend to the wooded valley. Then there were only a few small houses along the lanes; behind lay a waste place where Mrs. Knips, the washwoman, dried the shirts, and her two naughty boys threw the wooden clothes'-pins at each other. There Mr. Hummel had bought a dry spot, quite at the end of the street, and had built his pretty house of two stories, with stone steps and iron railing, and behind, a simple workshop for his trade; for he was a hatter, and carried on the business very extensively. When he went out of his house and surveyed the reliefs on the roof and the plaster arabesques under the windows, he congratulated himself on being surrounded by light and air and free nature, and felt that he was the foremost pillar of civilization in the primeval forest.
Then he experienced what often happens to disturb the peace of pioneers of the wilderness-his example was imitated. On a dark morning in March, a wagon, loaded with old planks, came to the drying-ground which was opposite his house. A fence was soon built, and laborers with shovels and wheelbarrows began to dig up the ground. This was a hard blow for Mr. Hummel. But his suffering became greater when, walking angrily across the street and inquiring the name of the man who was causing such injury to the light and reputation of his house, he learned that his future neighbor was to be a manufacturer by the name of Hahn. That it should of all men in the world be he, was the greatest vexation fate could inflict upon him. Mr. Hahn was respectable; there was nothing to be said against his family; but he was Mr. Hummel's natural opponent, for the business of the new settler was also in hats, although straw hats. The manufacture of this light trash was never considered as dignified, manly work; it was not a guild handicraft; it never had the right to make apprentices journeymen; it was formerly carried on only by Italian peasants; it had only lately, like other bad customs, spread through the world as a novelty; it is, in fact, not a business-the plait-straw is bought and sewed together by young girls who are engaged by the week. And there is an old enmity between the felt hat and straw hat. The felt hat is an historical power consecrated through thousands of years-it only tolerates the cap as an ordinary contrivance for work-days. Now the straw hat raises its pretensions against prescribed right, and insolently lays claim to half of the year. And since then approbation fluctuates between these two appurtenances of the human race. When the unstable minds of mortals wavered toward straw, the most beautiful felts, velveteen, silk, and pasteboard were left unnoticed and eaten by moths. On the other hand, when the inclinations of men turned to felt, every human being-women, children, and nurses-wore men's small hats; then the condition of straw was lamentable-no heart beat for it, and the mouse nestled in its most beautiful plaits.
This was a strong ground for indignation to Mr. Hummel, but worse was to come. He saw the daily progress of the hostile house; he watched the scaffolding, the rising walls, the ornaments of the cornice, and the rows of windows-it was two windows higher than his house. The ground floor rose, then a second floor, and at last a third. All the work-rooms of the straw hat manufacturer were attached to the dwelling. The house of Mr. Hummel had sunk into insignificance. He then went to his lawyer and demanded redress for the obstruction of his light and the view from his residence; the man of law naturally shrugged his shoulders. The privilege of building houses was one of the fundamental rights of man; it was the common German custom to live in houses, and it was obviously hopeless to propose that Hahn should only erect on his piece of ground a canvas tent. Thus there was absolutely nothing to do but to submit patiently, and Mr. Hummel might have known that himself.
Years had passed away. At the same hour the light of the sun gilds both houses; there they stand stately and inhabited, both occupied by men who daily pass each other. At the same hour the letter-carrier enters both houses, the pigeons fly from one roof to the other, and the sparrows hop around on the gutters of both, in the most cordial relations. About one house there is sometimes a faint smell of sulphur, and about the other, of singed hair; but the same summer wind wafts from the wood, through the doors of both dwellings, the scent of the pine-trees and the perfumes of the lime-flowers. And yet the intense aversion of the inhabitants has not diminished. The house of Hahn objects to singed hair, and the family of Hummel cough indignantly in their garden whenever they suspect sulphur in the oxygen of the air.
It is true that decorous behavior to the neighborhood was not quite ignored; and though the felt was inclined to be quarrelsome, the straw was more pliant, and showed itself tractable in many cases. Both men were acquainted with a family in which they occasionally met, nay, both had once been godfathers to the same child, and care had been taken that one should not give a smaller christening gift than the other. This unavoidable acquaintance necessitated formal greetings whenever they could not avoid meeting each other. But there it ended. Between the shopmen who cleaned the straw hats with sulphur, and the workmen, who presided over the hare-skins, there existed an intense hatred. And the people who dwelt in the nearest houses in the street knew this, and did their best to maintain the existing relation. But, in fact, the character of both would scarcely harmonize. Their dialect was different, their education had been different, the favorite dishes and the domestic arrangements that were approved by one displeased the other. Hummel was of North German lineage; Hahn had come hither from a small town in the neighborhood.
When Mr. Hummel spoke of his neighbor Hahn, he called him a man of straw and a fantastical fellow. Mr. Hahn was a thoughtful man, quiet and industrious in his business, but in his hours of recreation he devoted himself to some peculiar fancies. These were undoubtedly intended to make a favorable impression on the people who passed by the two houses on their way to the meadow and the woods. In his little garden he had collected most of the contrivances of modern landscape-gardening. Between the three elder-bushes there rose up a rock built of tufa, with a small, steep path to the top. The expedition to the summit could be ventured upon without an Alpenstock by strong mountain climbers only, and even they would be in danger of falling on their noses on the jagged tufa. The following year, near the railing, poles were erected at short intervals, round which climbed creepers, and between each pole hung a colored glass lamp. When the row of lamps was lighted up on festive evenings they threw a magic splendor on the straw hats which were placed under the elder bushes, and which challenged the judgment of the passers-by. The following year the glass lamps were superseded by Chinese lanterns. Again, the next year, the garden bore a classical aspect, for a white statue of a muse, surrounded by ivy and blooming wall-flowers, shone forth far into the wood.
In the face of such novelties Mr. Hummel remained firm to his preference for water. In the rear of his house a small stream flowed toward the town. Every year his boat was painted the same green, and in his leisure hours he loved to go alone in his boat and to row from the houses to the park. He took his rod in his hand and devoted himself to the pleasure of catching gudgeons, minnows, and other small fish.
Doubtless, the Hummel family were more aristocratic, – that is, more determined, more out of the common, and more difficult to deal with. Of all the housewives of the street, Mrs. Hummel displayed the greatest pretensions by her silk dresses and gold-watch and chain. She was a little lady with blonde curls, still very pretty; she had a seat at the theatre, was accomplished and kind-hearted, and very irascible. She looked as if she did not concern herself about anything, but she knew everything that happened in the street. Her husband was the only one who, at times, was beyond her control. Yet, although Mr. Hummel was tyrannical to all the world, he sometimes showed his wife great consideration. When she was too much for him in the house, he quietly went into the garden, and if she followed him there, he ensconced himself in the factory behind a bulwark of felt.
But also Mrs. Hummel was subject to a higher power, and this power was exercised by her little daughter, Laura. This was the only surviving one of several children, and all the tenderness and affection of the mother were lavished upon her. And she was a splendid little girl; the whole town knew her ever since she wore her first red shoes; she was often detained when in the arms of her nurse; and had many presents given her. She grew up a merry, plump little maiden, with two large blue eyes and round cheeks, with dark, curly hair, and an arch countenance. When the little, rosy daughter of Mr. Hummel walked along the streets, her hands in the pockets of her apron, she was the delight of the whole neighborhood. Sprightly and decided, she knew how to behave toward all, and was never backward in offering her little mouth to be kissed. She would give the woodcutter at the door her buttered roll, and join him in drinking the thin coffee out of his cup; she accompanied the letter-carrier all along the street, and her greatest pleasure was to run with him up the steps, to ring and deliver his letters; she even once slipped out of the room late in the evening, and placed herself by the watchman, on a corner-stone, and held his great horn in impatient expectation of the striking of the hour at which it was to be sounded. Mrs. Hummel lived in unceasing anxiety lest her daughter should be stolen; for, more than once she had disappeared for many hours; she had gone with children, who were strangers, to their homes, and had played with them-she was the patroness of many of the little urchins in the street, knew how to make them respect her, gave them pennies, and received as tokens of esteem dolls and little chimney-sweeps, constructed of dried plums and little wooden sticks. She was a kind-hearted child that rather laughed than wept, and her merry face contributed more toward making the house of Mr. Hummel a pleasant abode, than the ivy arbor of the mistress of the house, or the massive bust of Mr. Hummel himself, which looked down imperiously on Laura's doll-house.
"The child is becoming unbearable," exclaimed Mrs. Hummel, angrily dragging in the troubled Laura by the hand. "She runs about the streets all day long. Just now when I came from market she was sitting near the bridge, on the chair of the fruit-woman, selling onions for her. Everyone was gathering around her, and I had to fetch my child out of the crowd."
"The little monkey will do well," answered Mr. Hummel, laughing; "why will you not let her enjoy her childhood?"
"She must give up this low company. She lacks all sense of refinement; she hardly knows her alphabet, and she has no taste for reading. It is time, too, that she should begin her French letters. Little Betty, the councillor's daughter, is not older, and she knows how to call her mother chère mère, in such a pretty manner."
"The French are a polite people," answered Mr. Hummel. "If you are so anxious to train your daughter for the market, the Turkish language would be better than the French. The Turk pays money if you dispose of your child to him; the others wish to have something into the bargain."
"Do not speak so inconsiderately, Henry!" exclaimed the wife.
"Be off with you and your cursed French letters, else I promise you I will teach the child all the French phrases I know; they are not many, but they are strong. Baisez-moi, Madame Hummel!" Saying this, he left the room with an air of defiance.
The result, however, of this consultation was that Laura went to school. It was very difficult for her to listen and be silent, and for a longtime her progress was not satisfactory. But at last her little soul was fired with ambition; she climbed the lower steps of learning with Miss Johanne, and then she was promoted to the renowned Institute of Miss Jeannette, where the daughters of families of pretension received education in higher branches. There she learned the tributaries of the Amazon, and much Egyptian history; she could touch the cover of the electrophorus, speak of the weather in French, and read English so ingeniously that even true-born Britons were obliged to acknowledge that a new language had been discovered; lastly, she was accomplished in all the elegancies of German composition. She wrote small treatises on the difference between walking and sleeping, on the feelings of the famed Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, on the terrors of a shipwreck, and of the desert island on which she had been saved. Finally, she gained some knowledge of the composition of strophes and sonnets. It soon became clear that Laura's strong point was German, not French; her style was the delight of the Institute; nay, she began to write poems in honor of her teachers and favorite companions, in which she very happily imitated the difficult rhymes of the great Schiller's "Song of the Bell." She was now eighteen, a pretty, rosy, young lady, still plump and merry, still the ruling power of the house, and still loved by all the people on the street.